Red
by kazumigirl
Summary: Blackwood has captured Holmes, and will stop at nothing to break his spirit and make him his. Blackwood/Holmes Holmes/Watson
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Holmes had always been stubborn. Watson often complained about his pride, but good-naturedly. It was nice to know somebody out there didn't give up, no matter the odds.

Holmes had often felt the same about Watson. Despite the doctor's constant nagging, persistant complaints, and overall bad attitude towards anything they did, he stayed by the detective.

So why wasn't he here? Holmes wasn't sure how long he'd been captured. He'd tried to keep track, but being knocked unconscious so many times, and with no window to determine the time of day, he could not be sure.

Blackwood. His captor. His _tormentor_ was more like it. At first Holmes hadn't been afraid, merely annoyed. It was part of the stubborn pride. Blackwood had informed him that he was here forever, now part of _The Order_, part of _him_. He didn't harm him, not first, but several days after his refusal to do anything except make smart-aleck comments and try and escape, Blackwood's followers were orderered to beat him. Several of them at once, kicking and striking him, all the while, Holmes on his knees. His hands were bound behind him, his back pressed firmly against a room pillar. It wasn't fair.

The starvation didn't bother him much. He could go a long time without eating, but he desperately missed water. He remembered once when he'd been ill with a high fever. Watson had given him a glass of water and Holmes had complained that he wanted brandy. Now he would do anything for that glass of water.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but in that time, a crack had formed in his pride, and it was steadily crumbling away. Blackwood saw, and Holmes hated himself for it.

------

"Perhaps we can untie you today?" His captor suggested. "Well, _leave_ you untied, I mean."

They'd untied him several times, but he'd always come out of his bindings fighting. Now he was so tired and his stomach hurt so badly he wasn't sure he'd even be able to stand up, let alone defend himself.

Blackwood nodded to two goons nearby and they did so. Holmes raised his eyes towards the ceiling, trying not to wince as the ropes dug into his semi-raw wrists. When his hands were free, he let them drop to his side, pain throbbing where the ropes had binded him. All three men watched him intently, like they'd just released a lion from a crate. Holmes rubbed his wrists, not looking at any of them. Despite all he'd been through thus far, he took pleasure in their anticipation.

"You're wondering why I've captured you," Blackwood said. "I know you are."

Holmes finally looked up. "Not particularly." He sat down, crossing his legs as he continued to massage his arms. "I wonder a lot of things, but your reasons for ensnaring me is not one of them."

The two goons eyed each other uneasily, taking a step backwards. Holmes couldn't help himself. His bite was still there, even though his body told him to cut it out.

"I honestly could care less what you have planned for me," he sighed, raising his eyes.

Blackwood pushes his devious smile back into place, and stares back at him. He'd never met anybody like Sherlock Holmes, and when he did, he knew he had to have him. The man was a curse. He'd always considered himself the most powerful thing in the world, but the detective invaded his dreams and infected his thinking to the point where he'd finally decided he had to be with him.

The tricky part, of course, was making him _want_ to be with him. In reality, he could keep Holmes and do whatever he wanted with him, and not care how he felt about it. Blackwood didn't have a problem with that, necessarily, but he also knew that evenutally Holmes would find a way to escape and leave him. And he didn't want that. Not again.

"Tell me, _Sherlock_," Blackwood asked. "What are you thinking right now? At this very moment?"

Holmes looked up again, and he pretended to ponder it. He knew what he was thinking, of course. He'd been thinking about it for as long as he'd been here, whether he was awake or passed out. Watson.

"The color red," he lied. "I noticed all of your furnishings are the same color."

"Yes, well red is a symbol of passion," Blackwood said, sounding just as uninterested in answering as Holmes had in suggesting.

"It may also indicate a warning," Holmes smiled sweetly.

"Or blood," Blackwood retorted. "Either way...I feel that blood, passion, warnings...they all go hand in hand, wouldn't you agree?"

Surprisingly, Holmes nodded. Blackwood didn't expect it. Then again, they said expect the unexpected from Sherlock Holmes-every criminal who'd ever dealt with him.

Holmes wasn't afraid to tell the truth, so he'd nodded. Passion, blood, warnings...they did go hand in hand. He felt the passion for Watson, he'd seen the warning signs long before, and the blood...well, they'd been through a lot together...love wasn't always the sunshine and warm feelings it was portrayed to be. Sometimes it was frightening, and sad, and sometimes angry....without these, however, the warm feelings could never be appreciated.

"You're thinking of the doctor," Blackwood said quietly, no longer trying to sneer. He was downright disgusted. "I can see it in your eyes."

Holmes looked at him, but said nothing.

"You won't be thinking of him much longer."

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Author's note: **Here is chapter 2. Enjoy.

Mrs. Hudson had never seen the doctor like this before. He hadn't shaved in a few days, his hair was sticking out every which way, and dark rings engulfed his eyes. He lived on coffee, his hands jittery. She traveled upstairs to give him said coffee, and stood in the doorway, the door slightly ajar. He was standing in the middle of what looked like the aftermath of a twister. Papers littered the floor, furniture turned over...

She watched as he closed his eyes, letting his head roll back to face the ceiling. He stood like for a moment, speaking quietly to himself, or maybe a higher being, and then stared down at the sheet of paper in his hand. The landlady knocked on the doorframe, and then entered the room.

"You know Mr. Holmes," she said hopefully, though she knew it was useless.

"Twelve days," Watson muttered, shaking his head. He eyed the coffee cup in her hand. "Is that for me?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes, Doctor." Mrs. Hudson offered him the tray. "And I brought you some lunch as well."

Watson ignored the food and gulped down the hot liquid. He paused, swishing some around in his mouth, and swallowed slowly, wrapping his fingers tightly around the china. "I should have never let him go alone."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, though she knew he wasn't really speaking to her. He was telling himself. She could see it in his eyes. He probably wouldn't even remember she had even brought him coffee in the next five minutes. He finished off the cup, shuddering slightly at the newfound energy coursing through his veins. He knelt down and picked up various sheets of paper off the floor. Mrs. Hudson left the room.

---------------

At first, Holmes had assumed Blackwood was going to strike him. It had certainly looked like it. Instead, he gestured for two followers to take him away, and here he was. Locked in a dark closet. Or pantry. Or just a very small room. Or a crawl space...whatever it was, it was pitch-black, and left very little room to move around. Not like that was a problem. He was back to his prisoner of war position, on his knees, his hands behind his back. He was also blind-folded. He was a bit curious about that. He knew, despite the cloth around his eyes, that wherever he was, was a place without light.

He sat quietly, thinking, and tried his best not to think of food and water. They'd given him food and water occasionally-not much, but some. That was days ago...or weeks...something like that anyway. At that time, he'd been locked away in a small holding cell. His stomach ached, making him sweat, and his entire body trembled slightly. Not out of fear, simply out of fatigue.

After some time had passed, a clinking noise sounded-the door lock, and Blackwood entered. Holmes knew it was Blackwood because of the sound of his shoes, the speed of his steps, the smell of whatever he bathed with along with his own natural scent-very similar to pine.

He heard him chanting softly, but loud enough so he knew that the detective was listening. The only things Holmes listened for was how close he was getting, which was pretty close. Blackwood knelt down, still muttering foreign tongue, his fingers working at the back of the blindfold.

The world came into view, illuminated faintly by the light beyond the open door. Blackwood stared at Holmes as he tucked the scarf into his coat coat pocket, patting it firmly.

"Now then," he said. "I believe we are ready."

---------------

Watson rubbed his sore, sleep-deprived eyes as he desperately tried to focus on another sheet. _Nothing_ added up. The case Holmes had been investigating should have ended easily. He should have been home. if something was wrong,word of him would have turned up somewhere. It was a trade scandal, for God's sake!

He had been to all of the places Holmes would have been, and they were still only phantom steps, leaving traces of nothing. It was like the detective had fallen right off the face of the earth. He rubbed his eyes once more, his vision starting to blur. Twelve days was far too long, and he couldn't stop now.

-------------

Blackwood apparently hadn't been talking about death. Holmes had envisioned becoming some sort of pawn in a human sacrifice ritual. Instead, he was being fed. Back in the red room, Blackwood sliced through his bindings with a small blade, and pointed to a table, small, but littered with food. Holmes wanted to ignore it all, but he could not ignore the water, and immediately went for the pitcher, soaking the front of his shirt as he drank from it. He had to stop to catch his breath, and quickly started again, finishing the entire container. Blackwood watched silently.

Holmes curiously inspected the food, without actually touching it, and decided against it. He turned to Blackwood. "If you're going to kill me, then I'd suggest you just do it."

Blackwood smiled. "Is that what you've deduced?"

"You'll never turn me into a follower," the detective replied simply. "and even then I would be of no use to you. Your cult members hardly think for themselves."

"This is outside of _that _circle_,"_ Blackwood said, moving around him, toying with the knife. "This is soley between you and I."

"Is it?" Holmes turned to, refusing to ever have his back to him.

Without any warning, Blackwood lunged at him, knicking him in the arm. Holmes had seen it coming, briefly, but was still too sluggish to move quickly enough. He staggered backwards, clutching his arm, blood seeping between his fingers. Blackwood watched as the detective blinked repeatedly, an injury only weakening his defenses that much more. He roughly grabbed his free arm and half dragged, half-marched him to the far wall. Slamming him against it, he took the knife and placed it at the edge of the abrasion, lengthening it slightly.

"You are _mine_ now, Sherlock," he said as the detective closed his eyes, his knees shaking violently from the fatigue that threatened to shut him down. "Not my companion. Not my soulmate. Not my friend. My _property_." He leaned into his ear and whispered, "and I'm very careful with what belongs to me."

Holmes' eyes were slightly glazed over, and he was trying his best to stay focused. Probably beyond his best. Blackwood dragged him over to the bed and threw him on, swinging him by his good arm. Blood stained the comforter, part of Holmes' clothes, and the pillows.

"You're not going to die," Blackwood informed him. "Consider it..._somewhat_ of an anaesthetic." He made a tsk-tsk sound, shaking his head slightly. "Look at the mess you've made." He moved his fingers to the front of his shirt. "Better get these off."

Holmes slurred and grunted something at the same time, his bloody hands clumsily trying to move Blackwood's away. The other man grinned, and leaned down, trailing his tongue over Holmes' bloody fingers. He then rearranged himself so that he was not quite sitting on top of him, but close, easily pinning his arms and legs. He removed one of his arms, the injured one, and the blade from his pocket. He cut the wound just a little deeper, watching the blood flow. Holmes rolled his head back, making a coughing sound like he was unbearably nausceous, and Blackwood reached over to stroke his hair which was now soaked with sweat. With his other hand, he pinched the skin around the wound so the blood would flow faster. He looked between the flow and Holmes' face repeatedly, and finally stopped once Holmes had settled down, his breathing slowing down a great deal and struggling nearly ceasing. He retrieved the scarf from his pocket and doctored the arm, licking his bloody fingers.

"_Now _we're ready," he said.

To Be Continued.... 


End file.
